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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523522">Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairybog/pseuds/fairybog'>fairybog</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Swan Lake Fusion, Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Claustrophobia, Cruelty, Death Threats, Declarations Of Love, Drowning, Emotional Manipulation, Evil Twins, Fairy Tale Curses, Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Isolation, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Murder, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Starvation, Threats of Violence, Torture, Touch-Starved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:40:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairybog/pseuds/fairybog</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Martin Blackwood finds himself abandoned in the forest outside of his town, wandering helplessly through the fog, he stumbles across a dark, isolated lake and the looming ruins of a castle- and a man, trapped there by a curse he cannot break alone.</p>
<p>OR: The Swan Lake AU no one asked for but that won't leave me alone! <br/>(I'm bad at summaries!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. SIEGFRIED</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi all! so this should be.. six chapters long, and i already have it mostly planned out and a few of the chapters plotted/drafted/what have you. hopefully you guys enjoy reading it as much as i'm enjoying writing it.</p>
<p>title is from</p>
<p>"Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves. Night crossing: black coal of dream that cuts the thread of earthly orbs with the punctuality of a headlong train that pulls cold stone and shadow endlessly. Love, because of it, tie me to a purer movement, to the grip on life that beats in your breast, with the wings of a submerged swan, So that our dream might reply to the sky's questioning stars with one key, one door closed to shadow."<br/>Pablo Neruda</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span>Another sharp branch reaches out from the fog and drags a jagged line across Martin’s face. He hardly feels it; what’s one more scratch when he’s already stumbling and shambling on a twisted ankle, hopelessly lost? The fog hasn’t shown any sign of thinning, and he hasn’t seen any indication whatever of daylight, but it’s impossible that it’s still the night he got lost. It has to be. Every inch of his body is burning and sore, mind blurred with fear and despair. Sometimes he thinks he hears a voice in the shade of a tree, and never can seem to get any closer or further from it, or make out any real words. Sometimes he does hear words, like they’re being whispered directly into his brain.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><em><span>She’s going to think you abandoned her, too. </span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><span>Stop. He’s too tired to even think it properly, can’t hear his own thoughts over the whispering of the woods around him.</span><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>Left with friends you never even bothered to tell her about and never came back. Left her to her sickness, left her to die. Left her alone. Just like he did.</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><span>But he didn’t, he hadn’t, he wouldn’t do that to his mother, no, she knew better than that. A gust of frigid air nearly blows him over, twists his ankle back the other direction and sends a white hot shot of pain through his leg. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><em><span>Actually, you might be right about that. </span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><span>He's losing his mind. It's like the fog is laughing at him, laughing in his face, every rustle in the leaves and rush of biting wind mocking him for his failures.</span><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>If she ever finds out, she’ll probably thank those boys for leaving you out here.</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><span>Please stop.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><em><span>She deserves to finally be rid of you, </span></em><span>the fog says, curling bitter-sweetly through his hair, the taunt of a tactile memory he didn’t even know he missed. Something in him </span><em><span>cracks</span></em><span> like shattering glass and he spins hard, fighting his ankle the whole way round and tries to flee out of the ghostly embrace. It brushes invitingly along his skin, freezes the burn of the cuts and bruising.</span><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>No one needs you, </span></em><span>sighs the voice just as Martin turns and walks face first into a spiderweb.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>This, for some reason, is the final straw. As it just so happens, however, the final straw does not quite tip the scale in the direction the fog would’ve liked.</span><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>So what?</span></em><span> Martin thinks with such clarity he startles himself. </span><em><span>I don’t deserve this.</span></em><span> The forest around him seems shocked still as well, the air no longer oppressively heavy on his mind. He has no idea where the thought even comes from- seems a bit optimistic for him, really- but the whispering sighs away with the retreating fog and suddenly there’s so much stark silver moon light shining on the wet leaves and the ankle deep grass that it stings his eyes. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He’s definitely losing his mind. There’s a lake. An enormous, still, black expanse of water surrounded on all sides by flowers and reeds that should not be able to thrive in this chill and enormous bramble skinned vines climbing the crumbling tower wall of a ruined castle. At the center of the pool is the shining crescent of the moon, and Martin knows, he </span><em><span>knows</span></em><span> with an unsettlingly sudden certainty, that the lake can </span><em><span>see</span></em><span> him as he collapses to his knees in the dirt. Then the feeling is gone. Martin runs a shaking hand down his face and winces as he finds a deep gash on his cheek. He looks at the sticky black stain of his blood on his fingertips, lets out a pathetic little hiccup of a laugh, and lets himself really breathe. The crisp lake air grates his burning lungs and his entire leg is throbbing beneath him, but he’s… he’s alive. He’s alive and he’s still lost but he’s not lost in the forest anymore, not pulled this way and that by phantom voices and tearing branches. He readjusts, stretches his leg out in front of him and gingerly touches the swollen ankle, sighing at the state he’s in.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><em><span>At least there’s water</span></em><span>, Martin “King of the Optimists Apparently” Blackwood thinks just as he’s spooked by a fluttering of wings across the lake. </span><span><br/>
<br/>
</span><span>And then he's transfixed by the sight of a swan landing in the center of the circle of moonlight, head bowed deeply against its chest. The silver light shimmers against its feathers, mesmerizingly reflecting against the dying ripples caused by the landing, and Martin realizes he's holding his breath but can't find it in himself to inhale. The swan hugs its wings to its side tightly and shrinks into itself right before the dark water below opens wide, a swirling maw gaping beneath the bird, and then the lake snaps its jaws shut and swallows. All is very, very still.<br/>
<br/>
</span><em><span>Oh, fuck off.<br/>
<br/>
</span></em><span>He can not look away, not even when the last gasp of bubbles weakly breaks against the surface, and not for the next few minutes after, far too long for anything to survive-<br/>
<br/>
</span><span>And then from the shallows nearest Martin the water spits up a man, a wracking sob ringing out into the air. They both inhale sharply in unison, and the eyes that snap up into his shine green like a startled animal's faced with a torch.<br/>
<br/>
</span><span>He'd always sort of assumed the moment a person finally lost their last grasp on reality would be… harder to pinpoint, somehow, on the occasions his thoughts veered in that direction.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>The man stands up slowly, using one hand to push the black and silver strands of soaked hair from his face and the other to pull the sopping sack of a gown he’s wearing around his thin frame before stalking over to Martin, eyes aglow and locked on target. Martin reels a bit, casting about for any coherent thought he could offer this.. This magical swan person he’s obviously trespassed upon that might convince him not to curse him or kill him or…</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>"</span><b>Who are you?</b><span>" The man’s voice takes hold of Martin’s skipping thoughts and hangs on tight. He wishes he could avert his eyes, just for a moment, but he’s unable.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He answers.<br/>
<br/>
</span><span>"</span><em><span>Martin Blackwood." </span></em><span>What the hell? It’s not like he would’ve lied about his name in the first place, but the words are pulled from him and leave his throat raw, already hoarse from screaming for help as he went running through the forest and the fog before.<br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>The man blinks once, owlishly. Something inside Martin hysterically supplies the thought, </span><em><span>‘Oh. Pretty.’</span></em><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>"</span><b>What are you doing here?" </b><span>The moonlight sits behind the man’s head like a halo, catching in the droplets falling from his hair and fingertips and the frayed hem of the nightgown and shattering silver on the ground. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Martin is so, so confused.<br/>
<br/>
</span><b></b><span>You were a swan a few minutes ago. The lake ate you. I saw it. "</span><em><span>I don't know. I don't know where I am-” </span></em><span>Martin doesn’t want to talk about the fog, but he doesn’t get the choice. Why can’t he stop talking?<br/>
<br/>
</span><em><span>“I got lost in the fog and I don't know how long I was out there and I was..” </span></em><span>The man’s face changes at this, softens ever so slightly as the glow dies away slowly from his eyes. The grip around Martin’s mind loosens.</span><em><span> “I was alone, and I-"<br/>
<br/>
</span></em><em><span>"</span></em><span>You- you came through the fog?" His voice is suddenly so soft Martin barely hears him, shock plain on his face.</span><span><br/>
<br/>
</span><span>"I'm sorry, I didn't.. I mean, I-" Martin isn’t sure what he’s trying to apologize for, really. Scaring him? Trespassing? Getting lost in the first place? The man stares at him, or maybe through him, before muttering something to himself and pacing back and forth a few steps. Martin can practically hear his thoughts whirring around, and something about the flurry of sympathetic energy it sends through him calms his own nerves, a bit. His ankle throbs once, a reminder to readjust, and the movement draws the other man back out of his thoughts, startled as though he’d forgotten Martin was still there. “I-I didn’t mean to intru-”</span><span><br/>
<br/>
</span><span>When their eyes meet again, Martin would swear he sees a flash of curiosity flit through them before the walls go back up behind them. "No one else gets through the.. </span><em><span>How</span></em><span>?"</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Martin does not miss that while asked intensely, the question doesn’t wrench the answer from him this time. "I… I don't… know?” What does he mean, how? Is there a tactic to it? Before he can ask what the hell this guy’s talking about his ankle decides to remind him again of his fall, and Martin winces and shifts again, trying to find a way to sit that won’t put pressure on it or leave rocks digging into the swollen flesh.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“Are you hurt?” His voice is calm, carefully casual, but when Martin looks up there’s concern on his face, around the edges. One of the man’s hands is twisting uncomfortably in the wet gown as he looks down at Martin’s leg, and Martin notices a shiny scar across the back of it, wrapping around to his palm. It looks like it hurt, whatever did it.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“My ankle’s twisted, I think, but otherwise n-no, not that I know of.” When the man opens his mouth to respond, a gust of air blows across the surface of the lake and bombards them both with frigid wind. Martin pulls his coat more tightly around his shoulders and braces best he can against the blast and the misty spray. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>The man’s knees threaten to buckle and he hugs himself tight against the wind, teeth chattering, wet tendrils of hair sticking to his face and neck. “You c-can’t stay here. I-I-I d-don’t know w-when he’ll b-be back.” The droplets of water that blow out of his hair and onto Martin’s cheek are even colder than the wind, burning his skin on contact.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Christ. He must be freezing. “Christ, you must be freezing.”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“I... w-what?“ The man puts on a valiant show of stopping himself from shivering but absolutely does not succeed, undermined by a second biting gust of wind. Martin somehow manages not to openly roll his eyes at the misplaced pride, but the deepening furrow of the man’s brow makes him think he may still have made some sort of face. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He asks, “Did you not </span><em><span>hear</span></em><span> me?” right as Martin asks, “Aren’t you </span><em><span>cold?</span></em><span>”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>They look at one another for a long, still moment before the man sighs and darts his eyes around. Martin finds himself oddly bereft at the loss of eye contact.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“</span><b>Don’t move</b><span>,” the man says, and Martin feels his body lock up in the spot where he sits. He should be scared, probably, that this man can just command him to do things and he does them, can tear words from his throat and force the truth out of him, but mostly he just thinks the precaution is pointless, given the state of his ankle. He watches as the man walks over to a small stone bench near the shore and shakes out a heavy-looking cloak from beneath it, wrapping it around himself as he turns and briskly makes his way to the ruins of the castle, leaving him alone in the silver light of the moon.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>---</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Jon’s wet footsteps echo through the empty stone halls of the castle, touching every gloomy corner and cobweb adorned crevice. The hearth in the entryway roars and crackles with its lightless flame (</span><em><span>you could probably touch it now, Jon, don't you think?)</span></em><span>, and Jon shudders away from it and pulls his cloak closed over his shoulders. He finds his boots with only a little difficulty- Quatre’s been moving things around in the castle again, wretched old thing- and uses a shard of glass from a shattered window to slice a strip of fabric from one of the tapestries. <br/>
<br/>
</span><em><span>Compression for the swelling, </span></em><span>something supplies. </span><em><span>But unless you want to risk him to the water you won't have a cold compress. <br/>
<br/>
</span></em><span>And there's still the god forsaken woods to trek through. Jon casts his thoughts in the direction he knows the nearest town to be and groans. That's all night lost for certain, spent hobbling through the fog with a stranger.<br/>
<br/>
</span><em><span>Will you send him alone? </span></em><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>This is indescribably foolish, even though he’s relatively certain Elias won’t come tonight. It’s only been a week since his last visit, and the lake certainly hasn’t shown him anything of particular note since, but he never does really </span><em><span>know</span></em><span>, can never be </span><em><span>certain</span></em><span>.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He thinks about the man, Martin Blackwood. ‘</span><em><span>Christ, you must be freezing’ </span></em><span>rings through his head and tries to nestle into the softer corners of his mind, but he refuses to consider it long enough to allow it purchase</span> <span>and sighs at the scrap of rough fabric in his hands. This will have to do.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Martin Blackwood must leave, and quickly.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Jon makes his way back through the castle, eyes cast firmly on the shifting stones beneath his feet (</span><em><span>It took 40 steps from the hearth tonight, and they were glinting yellow in the wrong directions and your steps echoed thrice, towards you instead of away, how odd</span></em><span>) and away from the taunting whispers from the library (</span><em><span>There's one in here that Bleeds, Jon, one that Bleeds, one you haven't read yet, what if it says something important?</span></em><span>), curling together with the smoke from the fireplace. He breathes deep when he steps out into the rustling grass around the lake, thankful for the disorienting shift into a less oppressive quiet. Martin is where he left him, of course, and when he looks back up at Jon’s arrival he seems to have calmed a bit; the color in his cheeks is more even, though still flushed from the chill and the wind. Jon tries to ignore the phantom knowledge of the pain in his ankle- it aches in Jon's own leg like a distant memory and he's briefly overwhelmed by the shock of hurt, Martin must've been running on it for </span><em><span>days-</span></em><span> and crouches down, showing Martin the fabric before gingerly taking his ankle and wrapping it as best he can. Martin allows this easily enough Jon worries he'd over done the compulsion for a moment before it chimes in again.<br/>
<br/>
</span><em><span>He's just exhausted. A bit of shock. Don't flatter yourself so.</span></em><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“You really do have to leave,” he says quietly, wincing alongside Martin’s sharp intake of breath when he ties the makeshift compression in place.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>When he looks up, Martin looks </span><em><span>terrified</span></em><span>, on the verge of panicked tears, and Jon’s heart clenches hard in his chest.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“You’re.. you’re g-going to send me b-back into the fog?” </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><em><span>Martin had heard the other boys at work, the Evans twins Gavin and Neil, talking about the forest for a few weeks before they approached him. He’d been suspicious, of course- they’d never really spoken to him before outside of something work related, mostly to “delegate” restocking or shelving (get Martin to do it) or let him know they were taking a “break” (leaving for the day just before lunch)- but they were friendly enough in their pitch. The plan had just been to wander up the path a ways, maybe take a knock or two of some cheap wine Gavin had stored away for a silly adventure, and Martin had gotten his hopes up.<br/>
<br/>
</span></em><em><span>The forest had its reputations of course. Any forest old and deep enough had secrets and history, and even slacking in a library you hear rumors, stories. There were the usual disappearances, hunting accidents, and twisting trails forests tended to accumulate of course. There was also the talk of wolves- 'No, no,' Neil had insisted, 'it's one loner, does it just for the thrill!'- who stalked the wayward passers-by to a grim and bloody demise near the heart of the wood. Martin had read even an old legend once about the answer to eternal life tucked away in the leaves and the gloom, and the boys had all snorted at that.</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>On they walked, Martin ignoring the nagging unease at the glances cast his way as they talked and joked in favor of hoping he might make at least a casual friendship through this. It was starting to get dark, not just from the setting of the sun but from the canopy above, the branches of the trees seeming to twist around one another in a bid to block out the starlight, when Gavin made a comment about being alone in the dark.  Unthinkingly, Martin replied, 'But you aren't afraid of being alone in the dark. You're afraid of not being alone in the dark.'<br/>
<br/>
</span></em><em><span>He regretted the words the moment they left him.<br/>
<br/>
</span></em><em><span>Neil and Gavin shot one another matching conspiratorial smirks and had just opened their mouths to respond when they came to the fog, and the sight of it brought them all to a harsh stop. Neil let out a low whistle.</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>The fog stood in place like a fortress wall, a pale, shimmering barrier smack through the trees. Cold seemed to radiate out from it, and Martin took an instinctive step away from the wispy tendrils curling around his boots. He backed into Neil, who seized him by the shoulders. Hard. Gavin stepped beside him, identical grins stretched across their faces.</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span>Then they shove him forward through the line of mist and leave him there. Martin lands hard, foot caught on an exposed root and searing, writhing pain seizing up through his leg as his ankle gives to the torsion. He can hear the laughter- 'See you back at the library, Blackwood!' Gavin shouts over his brother's vicious cackling- but when he lifts his gaze the fog stretches far into the woods all around him. There is no sign of the place he was pushed through. <br/>
<br/>
</span></em><em><span>All at once, Martin Blackwood is alone.</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><em><span><br/>
</span></em><span>Every detail of Martin’s horror as he wanders through the fog, in terrible pain and berated by his own despair, floods into Jon’s mind unbidden and he has to steady himself against the heavy, choking shroud filling his lungs. He spends a moment forcing it from himself and pointedly ignoring Martin, who reaches out briefly as if to try and steady him and recoils from the mist as Jon exhales. <br/>
<br/>
</span><span>Jon doesn't want to know what the man's seeing right now, the sight of him suddenly gasping for air and biting back a swell of sympathetic sadness he'd thought he'd long forgotten, breathing out the fog that just tried to consume him.<br/>
<br/>
</span><em><span>Are you sending him alone? </span></em><span>It sounds almost eager, curiosity piqued. </span><em><span>We could see if he makes it here a second time.<br/>
<br/>
</span></em><span>“No,” he manages, faltering a bit as he stands and offering Martin his hand- the left one, mostly unblemished- to help him to his feet. He can't find it in him to be frustrated with the wary look Martin gives him for the gesture. “No, I’ll take you to the edge, at least. But we have to go, and we have to go </span><em><span>now.</span></em><span>”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>---</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Martin follows the man into the forest, trying to keep his suspicions buried. Every time he needs to stop the man makes a face or sighs, but accommodates as best as he can in the midst of his obvious urgency to have Martin leave. Now and again he sees him dart towards a large branch and test its integrity, leaning his weight on it and tossing it aside when it threatens to snap, then casting a quick glance behind him to Martin and moving on. Once the branch actually does snap, and Martin has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling when he nearly pitches forward onto his face, but the man bristles quietly and mercifully doesn’t acknowledge the snicker that manages to escape.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Martin gets the distinct impression that mentioning this attempted kindness would just earn him another frustrated huff, but he appreciates the thought nonetheless.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>The fog still brushes against his skin, twisting misty tendrils along his wrists and cheeks and trying to whisper to him, but it seems to be avoiding the man huddled into himself beneath his heavy cloak. Every time the voice tries to start back up- </span><em><span>he’s going to leave you here, she won’t even miss you, they tricked you and you were stupid enough to fall for it-</span></em><span> Martin winds up staring into clear, dark eyes, and the woods go quiet once more.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“So,” he tries, finding it difficult to stomach the silence as they tread through the leaves and the mist. “What’s your name?”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>The man’s breath hitches and Martin worries he’s overstepped, though he’s sure it was a fair enough question. Something he read in an etiquette book once about it being rude to demand a name before giving your own tries to rear its head pettily at his reticence, but he isn’t sure general social etiquette really applies to magical hermits.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“It’s..” He looks at Martin and Martin doesn’t miss the haunted look to his gaze, the walls trying to slam down. “Jon. My name’s Jon.”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He speaks his name so, so quietly, almost lost to the breeze through the branches, but Martin commits the tiny connection safely to memory and doesn’t miss the rush of warmth the answer pushes into his lungs, fighting the chill of the fog.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>There is power in a name, after all, especially one freely given. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“Jon?” he says, not sure where the teasing tone bubbled up from. Jon actually looks at him properly when he turns, brow furrowed, and Martin shoves down the flurry of </span><em><span>oh, cute, </span></em><span>his brain tries to shove to the forefront of his thoughts.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“I- Yes?” Jon answers, looking affronted and trying to wrangle a still-dripping lock of silver hair back under the hood of his cloak. “What, you don’t believe me?”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“No, sure I do,” Martin says, casually dismissive and playful. Jon snorts.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“</span><em><span>What</span></em><span>?” Jon almost sounds amused now too, which Martin considers a soft win. “Why would I lie about that?”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“Plenty of people lie about their names,” Martin says, wincing as he missteps over a large stone. Jon stops and reaches out to brace him, but Martin catches himself. Jon waits for him to right himself and Martin’s so grateful he could cry. “It could be your name, sure, it’s a common enough name. But, I mean, you don’t really know me. I could be </span><em><span>dangerous</span></em><span>.”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>Jon barks out a single, rough laugh that seems to surprise himself with it’s force, and Martin doesn’t bother to stifle his laughter this time around. They fall back into quiet from there. </span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He can’t bring himself to break the delicate peace again, but they walk in something approaching companionable stillness until Martin spots the beginning of a path and Jon stops him, gently laying a hand on his arm. He scans the forest before them for a moment and Martin watches a shudder wrack him from head to toe before he nods to himself.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He lifts Martin’s arm and points forward down the path, pupils blown even in the dim light. “</span><b>Go </b><b><em>straight</em></b><b> down this path.” </b><span>It’s another command, but as he slides his hand to Martin’s wrist and their eyes meet, Martin can’t be bothered by it. “Straight. It’s going to twist, and turn, and look like it’s vanished. It has </span><em><span>not</span></em><span>. Go </span><em><span>straight</span></em><span> this way, </span><em><span>do you understand</span></em><span>?”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“I- yes,” Martin says looking ahead and taking a deep breath to steady his nerves and the tremble in his hand at the thought of being alone again. Jon’s face softens again, sympathy in his eyes.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“One hundred and seventy-two steps,” he offers, voice soft and warm, releasing Martin’s arm and gesturing forward. “Straight ahead</span><em><span>.</span></em><span>”</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>And then he turns in a rush of dead leaves, and heads urgently back through the fog.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>“Thank you!” Martin calls after him, but if he hears he does not show it, and Martin walks forward, keeping his hand up as best he can to keep his guideline in sight. He doesn’t need it, as it turns out, Jon’s command to follow the path keeping his feet where they need to be even as the path attempts to tempt him left or right, disappearing into bushes and tangles of dead vines, but he does count his steps. The one hundredth and seventy second step is met with the click of the town’s cobblestone road beneath his boots. He’s home.</span><span><br/>
</span><span><br/>
</span><span>He casts one last look back over his shoulder to the forest, dark boughs outlined in the golden glow of sunrise and filled with the sounds of birds and scampering animals, and thinks about the lake as he hobbles home. He hardly even registers his mother’s derision- ‘</span><em><span>Three days, Martin, and not a word! What could possibly have been so important you’d forsake your own mother this way?’</span></em><span> she wails, not bothering to comment on his limp or the bruises and cuts along his face and arms- and sets about his morning routine to calm her before he makes his way to the library for work.</span><span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span><span>The looks on Gavin and Neil’s faces are almost worth the backlog of work they hadn’t bothered to do in his absence. Almost.</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. SPELLBOUND</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER</b>: Implied child abuse, toxic family relationships, nail injury, drowning, isolation, body horror, step counting (as a defensive against spatial shifting), paranoia, discussions of death, vague dissociative vibes, mention of attempted murder via abandonment, reality questioning, implications of early-stage dementia, graphic description of traumatic crushing injury via spaghettification, eye trauma, guilt tripping / victim blaming.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>SPECIAL THANKS FOR THIS CHAPTER GO TO MY CO-AUTHOR, MY TAROT DECK, WITHOUT WHOM I PROBABLY COULDN'T PLOT FOR JACK SHIT ALL.</b></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“M-Martin,” Neil tries as he walks into the back room, looking like he’s seen a ghost. Martin supposes that makes sense, all things considered, and continues calmly making himself a cup of tea before getting around to reshelving the four stacks of books the twins had piled up behind the front counter. He doesn’t know how they keep getting away with that. He supposes neither the owner nor the librarian seem to have more than a superficial concern over the quality of how the place runs so long as it continues to do so. “H-hey, man, I uh- Are you- We didn’t-”<br/>
<br/>
Gavin follows close behind, eyes wide, mouth hanging open stupidly. He does not bother trying to speak, and Martin smirks into his cup at the sight of him. Neil clears his throat and tries again.<br/>
<br/>
“You were uh- you were gone for a few days, are you..” he stammers, stops, stares. Martin raises an eyebrow and focuses on the scent of the tea and the warmth of the cup in his hands; he still hasn’t managed to completely shake the fog’s chill from his fingertips. “We didn’t- I’m-”<br/>
<br/>
(<em>You came through the fog? </em>Soft spoken and shocked, bathed in silver light and dark, freezing water.<em> No one else gets through the-)</em><br/>
<br/>
It does not escape Martin’s notice that none of those sentence starters sounded particularly apologetic, nor does the shaking of both their hands against their sides.<br/>
<br/>
Gavin finally speaks, his voice hushed and trembling. “Are you going to tell our father?”<br/>
<br/>
Martin wants to be angry with him, to yell, maybe to throw one of the older, heavier bibles directly at those identical faces. Hell, he <em>is</em> angry, and <em>hurt</em>, and <em>confused </em>as to why they’d done it in the first place, as to what on Earth he could possibly have ever done to deserve being dragged into the forest and abandoned; how <em>dare</em> they ask something of him now? But the very genuine terror in Gavin’s voice at the mention of their father gives him pause. He’s met the man at a town festival and seen the way he speaks to his sons, the way he looks at the people he considers lesser than himself (which is practically everyone, even though the Evans family is far from the most prominent name in the town’s hierarchy.) Neil’s gone so still that Martin’s pretty sure he’s stopped breathing.<br/>
<br/>
He thinks about clear, dark eyes, steady in the moonlight, chasing away the fog and the whispers, and takes a slow sip of his tea. If he drags the moment out longer than necessary pretending to think, just to watch them squirm, well, that’s his own business. <em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em>Martin sighs and shakes his head. “No,” he says. When the twins slump in relief he chuckles to himself and drains his tea. “At least, I don’t think so. I haven’t decided yet.”<br/>
<br/>
He leaves them with that little lie and gets to work. With the exception of an offer of buying his lunch- likely the closest they’ll ever come to an apology, asked cautiously from the other side of a shelf as Martin fits the books back into their places- he sees neither hide nor hair of the Evans twins for the rest of the day. He spends a lot of the time going through familiar motions; it doesn’t take much to put books back after all, and the routine gives his mind time to wander back into the forest of its own accord, thoughts stuck fast on Jon and the lake. He does not, however, end up having to reshelve all the returns himself for once, and takes the extra time to peruse a few sections. It’s a bit slower going than he’d like, having to favor his ankle the way he is, and he wanders the aisles past the library’s closing, uncertain of precisely what he’s looking for.<br/>
<br/>
It only occurs to him hours later, hunched over the desk in his bedroom, that he should have found it odd the librarian never found him and sent him home, turned out the lights, or locked the front door on him thinking he’d gone already.<br/>
<br/>
Martin easily finds two books of local maps, one older and more focused on the land surrounding the town, and one newer, detailing a few of the changes to the surrounding terrain as the town grew. He takes a weighty record of the town’s history, which promises to be an excruciatingly boring read, but it’s as thorough a record as he could ever hope for. He finds a book of local legends and lore, frowning when a few pages slip out onto the floor when he pulls it from the shelf, but he collects them back up as carefully as he can, taking them with him and adding them to his pile. He skims the books in fantasy, stopping here or there as a fairytale or fable catches his eye, but none seem to stick. The binding on the spines feels odd beneath his fingertips when the book isn’t right, rejected by his glancing touch. He drifts into the religion section; not a bible, no, certainly not, but he does grab a pitifully thin paperback about witchcraft and another on mythology. He’s missing something, though he isn’t sure exactly what, and decides to simply trust he’ll know when he finds it.<br/>
<br/>
And know it he does, though were you to ask he’d say it found him first, called him into the dingy corner just as he’d given up hope of finding whatever it was he was searching for.<br/>
<br/>
Tucked away far enough to the back of the building to seem deliberately obscured, coated in a layer of dust, Martin stumbles across a bookshelf he’s <em>certain</em> he’s never seen before. The heavy-looking wood is a completely different color than the others, stained dark and adorned with intricately carved eyes along the borders. There’s a moment of <em>deja vu</em>, of the distinct feeling of being <em>seen</em>, Martin’s <em>sure</em> one of them just turned towards him- and then it’s gone.<br/>
<br/>
Just like the lake.<br/>
<br/>
Martin takes his time looking over the books on the shelves; he can tell most of them are very old, the bindings frayed on the edges and several with haphazard pages trying to escape from their casing. Not many of them still have legible titles on the spines, if ever they had them at all, and the few he can make out seem to be in languages he’s unfamiliar with. His fingertips ghost over the spines, lingering on a rough, drab fabric that pricks at his fingertips like a sewing needle, a hard cover that makes his breath hitch and his chest feel constricted, recoiling from one bound in disconcertingly warm leather, heart pounding in his ears with anticipation. Never once does he pick a book up to inspect it beyond the initial sensory acknowledgement; it feels wrong, somehow, to open the ones that aren’t what he needs, until…<br/>
<br/>
<em>There.</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em>A warm wave of static courses up through his arm and into his scalp as he touches one, a worn but otherwise utterly unremarkable tome in the center of the bookcase, bound in some sort of emerald velvet-down fabric. Martin thinks of Jon gently wrapping his ankle and helping him to his feet, of the scattered concerned glances sent his way through the woods between put-upon grumbling, and takes it without a moment’s hesitation. He does not look back at the mysterious collection as he retreats to the pile of reference material he’d left at the front counter to check out, or when he makes his way through the building to shut off the lamps, or as he locks up behind him and heads out into the night with an armload of books and only the vaguest sense of what his next move might be.<br/>
<br/>
(<em>Why would I lie about that?</em> Asked alongside an uneasy almost-smile, followed by a burst of laughter obviously rough from disuse that Martin can’t get out of his mind.)<br/>
<br/>
His mother is already asleep when he gets in. He swallows the guilt that rears its head along with the relief while carefully removing his boots and coat. He makes his way up the stairs to his room slowly, being careful of the creaky step, balancing his literary spoils as best he can until he gets to his desk. Once the books are safely set down and his bedroom door closed, he releases the breath he always finds himself holding up the stairs when his mother is asleep.<br/>
<br/>
“I should probably try to get some sleep,” he tells the books as if they can hear him, glancing over at his bed, still made from several mornings ago before the trip into the woods. He <em>is</em> tired, he knows this, can feel it in his bones, and yet...<br/>
<br/>
Martin lays the books out in a line and looks over each cover, wondering where to start. He still isn’t actually sure what it is he’s looking <em>for.</em> It isn’t until he lays his eyes on the unmarked velvet cover that he realizes he’d had his hand resting on it, palm flat against the soft fabric, letting that gentle noisy buzz seep into his fingers. His hand finally feels warm again, and he shrugs.<br/>
<br/>
“Alright. Alright,” he says to the book, sitting down and cracking open the cover. He half expects something drastic to happen, a flash of light or the shrieking wails of the damned, but he’s met only by a comforting waft of the smell of old parchment. There’s no title he can find but the pages are thick and seem to thrum pleasantly at his touch. He breathes out a little laugh and clicks on his reading light. “I can take a hint. Let’s see what you are then, hm?”<br/>
<br/>
---<br/>
<br/>
The rush of air that fills Jon’s lungs as he scrabbles to shore burns, not helped by the gasping panic he can never seem to be rid of, no matter how many nights he’s spat out of the lake. He was shown nothing again tonight. Nothing but the swirling pressure of cold, dark water and the twisting and snapping of his bones from shape to shape, mouth and throat and lungs inundated to the brink of death before being thrown onto sharp stones. A nail bends and breaks against the near frozen soil as he digs his fingers in to pull himself forward, fighting the sobs and the pain until he can stand, trying to hastily wipe away the evidence of his tears- an old habit born of years spent projecting a false unflappable competence that he has yet to break, useless as it is in this place. He blinks hard, attempting to be rid of the droplets clinging to his eyelashes. He scans his surroundings as his eyes adjust to the moonlight, absent-mindedly putting his bleeding fingertip in his mouth just to taste something other than the lake before the skin knits itself back together.<br/>
<br/>
His gaze lands on the imprint of two pairs of boots in the dirt and his mind drifts to the forest as he catches his breath. He can’t see past the fog without venturing into the woods themselves, and he can’t afford to lose the time he’d need to spend wandering through the trees to get close enough to town to make sure Martin’s alright.<br/>
<br/>
Jon knows it isn’t really his business, not anymore, but he can’t stop himself hoping he made it out. He takes a moment to brush dirt over the tracks and obscure them, his thoughts returning helplessly again and again to a smattering of freckles and soft looking curls, framing a scratched and bruised display of utter confusion.<br/>
<br/>
(<em>Christ, aren’t you freezing? </em>Asked with genuine concern while nursing a twisted ankle after being tricked into the woods in a moment of hopeful naivety and nearly devoured by the fog. <em>Aren’t you cold?</em>)<br/>
<br/>
Jon puts his palm to his chest, counts the pace of his heart behind his ribs and takes a deep breath before staggering towards the bench he keeps his cloak under, trying and failing to will his body to stop shivering. When he reaches under the stone seat he only finds dead leaves and dirt and groans, hugging himself a bit tighter as a chill breeze cuts through his wet clothes.<br/>
<br/>
He’d kill that goose if it wouldn’t leave him completely alone.<br/>
<br/>
<em>It’s by the fireplace,</em> something informs him. <em>Wasn’t even Quatre. You fell asleep in it when you returned home, remember?</em><br/>
<br/>
Jon bites back an angry sob. This is not his <em>home</em>, no matter what it insists upon telling him. Unfortunately, there’s not much else to be done but make his way into the castle, and so he drags himself past the bramble bushes, trying to ignore the scuttling and clicking from inside the poison dripping, tangled vines. The moment he passes through the archway the air around him goes still, heavy and expectant. The hearth crackles loudly and sends a plume of dark smoke his way, curling around his feet and settling on the cold stone.<br/>
<br/>
Jon moves almost unthinkingly to the fireplace, eyes cast down to make sure the floor doesn’t try to trip him up or move him backward and finds his cloak in a heap there, as promised.<br/>
<br/>
He also finds Quatre, nestled snugly into the fabric and staring up at him with a merciless dare in its eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“<b>Get up,</b>” Jon commands. Quatre obeys, but not without an indignant squawk and an attempt to beat Jon about the shoulders with its wings when he reaches down to pick the cloak off the floor. “Wretched thing. Go find something else to torment, why don’t you?”<br/>
<br/>
Quatre hisses and storms away towards the library, four webbed feet slapping loudly against the stones. There’s a moment of disconcerting quiet before another loud honk echoes through the rafters, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bookcase being upset by an irate mutant goose. Jon hangs his head in his hands and sighs deeply before locating his boots; his toes are starting to go numb and he could use the extra precaution from Quatre’s rampage. As he passes through the hallway (<em>Sixty steps from hearth to hallway the night before last, </em>the incessant catalogue in his mind rattles off automatically, <em>thirty-five the night before that, and the portrait of War had its eyes closed but now it sees you, Jon, it sees you fighting-) </em>there’s the sound of a deadbolt abruptly slamming open and a door that he knows wasn’t there earlier creaks open. He can’t help but glance into it as he passes- one day, maybe, he’ll finally learn how to curb his curiosity- briefly enticed by the well lit space within. The door opens into a long, twisting hallway, lined with mirrors and brightly colored stained glass lamps, and Jon gives it a disbelieving little laugh as he slams the door shut.<br/>
<br/>
Even he’s not stupid enough for fall for that thrice.<br/>
<br/>
(<em>But, I mean, you don’t really know me </em> , Martin had said, playful through the obvious pain and doing his best to keep up. His voice had been so gentle around the words, eyes full of exhausted gratitude at the basic kindness of a moment’s pause. <em> I could be </em> <b> <em>dangerous</em> </b> <b>.</b>)<br/>
<br/>
The tattered remains of the curtains across the library windows sigh as he enters, the scent of old parchment and dust billowing out around them. From the entrance he can’t see the monster or the shelf it turned over, but the sound of flustered wings and slapping feet bounces around the library like the distant promise of thunder, and Jon braces for an ambush as he makes his way into the aisles. If he’s beyond lucky, Quatre will make himself useful and eat a few spiders instead of accosting him.<br/>
<br/>
Jon follows the shadows as they slither between the shelves, listening for the telltale whispering of the section he’s meant to find tonight. He places his hand on the first bookshelf he reaches, dark stained wood cool beneath his palm and a hush falls, as if each page of every book is holding its breath. The room feels darker than it should for how high the moon still sits. Jon curses himself under his breath for not making note of its phase while he was outside.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Five days until the New Moon, Jon, </em>the voice offers, dripping saccharine. He hums noncommittally in response and lets his hand creep around to the whispering volumes, taps a finger twice on the spine of one he knows, one of the very hungry ones. It chitters gleefully in response right as an icy drop of water rolls between his shoulder blades. He shudders at the thought it stirs of things with too many legs and steels himself to begin his search, listening to the siren calls rioting from every inch of the shelves.<br/>
<br/>
<em>We’ve one here that Rots, </em>the books hiss as he passes, fingertips trailing along behind him against the spines, mingling with the patter of dark droplets falling from his hair against the floor. <em>This one Rends, Jon, Tears and Rends and Rips, this one can Weave souls together, this one Knows you, Sees you, we’ve one that Falls, Jon, Falls forever, come and see-</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em>An icy jolt shoots up his arm. He looks to see his hand resting against a small, unassuming black book. Jon’s mind sharpens, locked on as he curls his fingers around the book, feet moving of their own accord to one of the weathered, uncomfortable chairs sat around the old oak tables.<br/>
<br/>
<em>This one Waits. </em>The knowledge floods into his head and Jon takes a shaky breath, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders. Everything has gone utterly still; even Quatre seems to have settled or left the room, as often it does when the choice is finally made. Jon opens the book and feels the grip on his thoughts tighten, razor sharp against his own will, and reads. His voice sounds distant to his own ears, muffled by the urgent disembodied hunger winding the words from his throat.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Patient, not to be swayed by beauty or suffering, the man stands in the corner of the sick room, dark eyes listing slowly over the bodies wracked with pain and ravaged by illness before him. A few see him, recognise him, and he nods to them as they lock eyes. A promise of release, though given through agony and never soon enough for those who understand-”</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em>---<br/>
<br/>
Martin wakes to his mother knocking at his door, wincing at the knots in his shoulders from falling asleep slumped over his desk. “It’s morning,” she says, her voice trembling ever so slightly and betraying her own fatigue. She must not have slept very well. He stretches, stiff and sore all over, and listens to the padding retreat of her footsteps- trying to make note of any stumbling or troubles and hearing none to cause any extra concern- before looking down at the book he’d fallen asleep on top of.<br/>
<br/>
The pages themselves, yellowed by time, are blank save for a spot of age here or a smudge there, but Martin distinctly remembers there being a story, if not every detail of it; something murky rises in his mind about a place of power and a conduit, a man reaping the spoils of what another continues to sow, about greed and fear and pain and… and something else. Something important. It’s gone though, dissolved in the cold light of morning streaming through a hole in his curtain, shining directly into his eyes. Martin closes the book gently and contemplates what he can’t remember as he starts breakfast, making sure to give his mother her medicines and not burn the toast this time. She watches him intently over her tea cup as he absent-mindedly moves a piece of sausage around his plate, and when he finally meets her gaze she huffs at him. Martin inhales slowly and sets down his fork, doing his best not to huff back. He isn’t sure where this recent streak of quiet defiance has bubbled up from, but he does think he might like it, just a little.<br/>
<br/>
“So,” she says, voice now icy, eyes scanning his face. Martin takes a sip of his tea without breaking eye contact and watches her falter as she finally seems to register the scrapes and bruises. “Where were you?”<br/>
<br/>
Martin opens his mouth, stops, closes it again. His mother takes a bite of her toast as he thinks, pretending to be patient.<br/>
<br/>
What can he even say?<br/>
<br/>
‘<em>I was lost in the forest, mum. I think the Evans twins might have tried to murder me for the thrill of it. Twisted my ankle pretty badly. Guess you didn’t notice the limp. Pretty sure the fog out there is alive, or sentient, or something. Have you ever been terrified? I mean, really, truly, terrified? That fog was terrifying. Hungry. Rude, too. Also, did you know there’s a castle in the woods? Really old one from the look of it. I met a man there who turns into a swan. Or maybe I met a swan who can turn into a man. Well, I say man, name was Jon, I guess I don’t- but, yeah, a swan-person. I know, I know. He tried to help me with my ankle and he led me back out of the fog. Sounds crazy, right? I’m pretty sure it actually happened, that it wasn’t just some nightmare caused by being left in the woods to die. I don’t know, the last few days have been a bit weird. I think I might try to go back. I think he needs help.’</em><br/>
<br/>
He doubts that would go over very well at all and doesn’t particularly feel up to being called a liar, so he settles for a modified version of the truth that sounds slightly less insane.<br/>
<br/>
“Gavin and Neil Evans and I went out into the woods to drink and... got separated,” he says, watching her attention snap back up at the mention of the Evans boys. Martin takes a bite of sausage and another sip of tea before the thought he’d been chasing seemingly in vain finally strikes him. His mother says something; he can see her mouth moving and idly registers the muffled noise of her voice, even notes a spark of concern in her eyes, but his mind has gone off elsewhere.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Is</em> he thinking about trying to go back? He is, isn’t he? What on Earth is wrong with him? Even if Jon does need help, Martin doesn’t have the first clue what kind of help he could offer, much less how to get back through the forest and the fog and find the lake again. He thinks about running through the woods, the whispers and the cruel, casual laughter and all the rumors of monsters, and it sets his heart racing almost painfully fast. He’d have to be a moron to wander back in there willingly, wouldn’t he? Besides, he doesn’t <em>know</em> that Jon needs help. He could have just wanted to be alone.<br/>
<br/>
(<em>I don’t know when he’ll be back. We have to go, and we have to go </em><b><em>now</em></b>.)<br/>
<br/>
“-u alright?”<br/>
<br/>
His mother is looking at him oddly. Martin realizes he’s been anxiously tapping the side of his tea cup with his fingernail. “Sorry?” he asks, offering an apologetic smile. When he takes a sip of his tea it's on the verge of cold, and he shoots a glance at the clock before looking back at his mother.<br/>
<br/>
He watches a curious mix of emotions pass over her face, settling on something slightly warmer than obligation and softening the lines around her eyes. “I said, are you alright?”<br/>
<br/>
Martin nods, still smiling. “Yeah, ‘course. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back.” <br/>
<br/>
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but they spend the rest of breakfast in comfortable enough silence. When Martin gets up to clear the dishes she stops him, tells him she’ll take care of it and to get ready for work. He starts to argue out of habit- ‘<em>I don’t mind, really</em>,’ and it’s usually even the truth- but stops himself, decides to take the offer for what it is and winces up every stair to get ready for his day. He stops in the bathroom to root around for the first aid supplies he’d insisted on spending his first paycheck on and finds something to wrap his ankle more securely in, keeping the strange rough fabric Jon had used cradled gently in his hands. Now that he's looking at it, the rough tapestry is covered in intricately stitched patterns, spiraling out and around one another in a dizzying array. He inspects the swirls of embroidery on the way to his room, tracing the colorful designs with his finger. It goes into the soft emerald covered book, tucked gently into the front cover. He shuts the book and rests his hand on it a moment, basking a moment in the warmth seeping into his fingertips. The rest of the books go into his work bag- the topics of which, it occurs to him as he looks at the covers, should have been his first clue.<br/>
<br/>
Martin thinks about the way the lake threw Jon onto the shore, choking and gasping for air, the haunted look in Jon’s eyes when asked for his name and the softly spoken but tentatively trusting response. The painful myriad of scars he spotted on Jon’s hand and arms and neck when Jon pointed him on his way home. <br/>
<br/>
Obviously he’s planning to go back.<br/>
<br/>
He just has to figure out <em>how.</em><br/>
<br/>
Martin doesn’t even notice the rain until he’s nearly halfway to the library, but it does wonders for keeping other people from coming in. He gives Gavin an obligatory wave in greeting as he passes the front desk, ignores Neil entirely as Neil drops a precariously balanced stack of books, and spends most of his day poring over the town history records- which turns out to be exactly as boring a read as he’d been concerned it would- and the local legends. He scribbles down anything that seems to line up between the two. He only stops long enough to make another cup of tea or, after about the fifteenth time of having to pick up yet another sheaf and waste time sorting them back into order, to finally find the book glue and fix the pages that keep coming out of the collection of local lore.<br/>
<br/>
He finds a single mention of a castle, already long abandoned when the town was founded. It must be the same one, surely, but with no further elaboration on where it was in relation to anything else and no mention of any landscape surrounding it, he can’t confirm it. He can’t find a record of the lake at all. There’s not a single mention of it– though you’d think a large body of water would be a deciding factor in building a settlement– and no indication of it on any of the maps, new or old. The barrage of information in the chapter dedicated to the town’s founder and his eccentricities leaves him nigh despair inducingly bored, eyes drying out from his attempts to actually process the lines he keeps having to re-read. The man apparently abhorred the idea of death, publicly spurned lovers as if he were collecting their broken hearts, and was widely rumored to have made a pact with the Devil for either power, immortality, or both. He does note down an account from one of the man’s friends, claiming to have met him walking into the forest with another man one night and behaving suspiciously when questioned, but there wasn’t really anything further to the story than that.<br/>
<br/>
Martin makes the decision to entirely skip the section on the town’s tax system and average annual cattle population, although he does take a look through the list of waterfowl native to the area and hopes Jon wouldn’t be too offended by the implication. He then spends a few minutes chuckling to himself about worrying he might offend a swan, though he thinks he might’ve heard something once about them being strong enough to break a man’s arm.<br/>
<br/>
(Jon’s touch had been so gentle it had stunned him more than a slap would have. <em>One hundred and seventy-two steps.</em> Cold fingers against Martin’s skin, the way home laid out before him. <em>Straight ahead.</em>)<br/>
<br/>
The book of local folklore provides him with several extremely interesting pieces of information, each tale given as though a first hand account. The fog seems to be a recurring theme throughout the entirety of the book, sometimes as an active threat and sometimes simply serving as a barrier to something else, though none of what it supposedly guards in the stories match up with his experience. He finds the stories of vicious beasts that hunt the unfortunate, hoping without much force behind it that they aren’t true. Maybe it’s just normal, dangerous animals hunting to eat and not really enormous bipedal wolves that enjoy toying with their prey for days before finally ripping them to shreds and leaving them to rot. One story, written so clearly it has an air of truth more palpable than anything he saw in the town’s historical record, details a woman’s trip into the forest on a path that never seemed to go anywhere. It took her on a twisting trek through the trees in directions that should have been impossible without doubling back over itself before depositing her unceremoniously back at the entrance to town, almost two months later. There’s the story of a pair of siblings, told by the surviving brother, of a ravine where his brother fell up into the sky and vanished, which shakes Martin more than he feels it should. He reads tale after tale of odd encounters and near deaths, but as he approaches the end of the book he has nothing more than unfortunate mental images to show for his time. Just as he thinks he may be well and truly out of options he comes to the book’s final illustration and his breath hitches hard; it is undeniably the castle and the lake, the crumbling tower printed in stark contrast against the full moon rising behind it, cascading brambles and all.<br/>
<br/>
The story itself is vague compared to the others, written in a disjointed stream of consciousness sort of way, a haphazard ramble on the subject of sacrifice and fear and destiny that leaves Martin’s head spinning. It reads like a fever dream; each individual line almost right until you try to link its meaning to the line on either side of it, and he reads it over and over again, hoping for this time through to be the one where the words make sense. Every twisting word causes another stir of that same warm static through his mind as the emerald bound book he left at home.<br/>
<br/>
The thought of his bedroom makes him remember where he is and look up at the clock; Martin’s missed lunch, but it’s not as late into the afternoon as it could be. He leans back against the chair and sighs, staring at the ceiling. Probably should do a <em>bit</em> of his actual job, and truth be told he could use the excuse to look away from the words tangling themselves around his mind.<br/>
<br/>
Martin copies it into his notebook, painstakingly checks his transcription once, twice, thrice, and then replaces the books of history and folklore before following the sounds of an Evans brother dropping something heavy on the other’s foot and the crash of a cart toppling. The rest of the day is much the same, a blur of clumsy messes courtesy of his coworkers ‘<em>working smarter, not harder</em>’ and wet visitors dripping on everything they can. When Martin returns home he’s too tired to set straight back into the fray of research. Dinner that night is a quiet affair, exhaustion and the patter of rainfall against the windows taking their toll on them both as they wind down through the nightly routine of dishes and medications. His mother makes him do an extra lap through the house to double check the locks when he goes to put the lights out- a new habit Martin isn’t certain when she developed, and her insistence makes him very, very nervous, although he can’t pinpoint why.<br/>
<br/>
He wants to pull out the maps, his notes, wants to dive back into the chaotic rush of words and keep trying to plot his next course of action, but the reality of his last few days sinks in as he drags himself up the stairs and into his room, dropping his work bag beside the desk and collapsing onto his mattress.<br/>
<br/>
“M’sorry,” Martin says as his head hits his pillow, unsure in his half-consciousness who he thinks needs to hear it. “Might take me longer to get back than I thought.”<br/>
<em><br/>
</em>---<br/>
<br/>
<em>‘Defenestration.’</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em><em>She thinks the word so calmly, one last bright spark of clarity as she is ripped through her bedroom window and into the crushing darkness fallen over her home. It came for her, marked her long, long ago and she knew it, thought she had made her peace with her fate through the years as she waited to be taken. A life of constant candles, a closet full of torches, of pushing away anyone who might be touched by what claimed her and knowing that any bit of space too dark could be her unavoidable end had led her to this night. When she’d watched the lights around her home die one by one, bursting under the surge of creeping void swallowing everything along its path to her, her breath had been steady enough to pass as resolve, her heartbeat hard against her chest but grounding-</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em><em>She had not realized she had moved to the window or placed her palm against it as her eardrums began to ache, straining to hear the song that she had spurned at six years old. She’d never before regretted slamming shut the cellar door at her grandfather’s house after his funeral when the house’s throat had spoken her name and hummed, enticing, up the stairs. </em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em><em>And then her arm had been torn through the glass, slicing clean to bone as the darkness outside </em><b><em>pulls</em></b><em>, stretching her into itself, one more withered shadow to fade away unnoticed in the dark. Her skin and muscle meld beneath the gravity, agonizing explosions of veins that blossom bruises, swirling black and purple to match her new home, to make her new as slowly and painfully as possible. She tries in vain to pull away, even though she can feel its laughing teeth latch into the warped tendon and saw gleefully through. For one moment her arm slides when she heaves her weight back, flesh mangled and tattered but giving- hope against hope- and then the darkness howls with laughter and wrenches her forward. She watches her joints give and pull like taffy, spooling her slowly in to face the mocking pitch. She cannot escape being squeezed and pressed and stretched into the neverending black and in the very last, excruciating second before her eyes can swell against the strain of eternity’s appetite no longer, </em>Jon is thrown hard from the water, his ribs creaking with the sudden pressure shift, every muscle twisted into screaming knots. He scrambles forward, desperate to be away from the lake and its depths, feet slipping on the stones as the last ripples lap at his ankles. Once completely on land he collapses onto his back in the tall grass and presses his palms to his eyes, trying to rid himself of the stolen sensation of one’s vitreous humor escaping their skull.<br/>
<br/>
Once his vision stops pinwheeling he casts his gaze up to the last sliver of the waning moon and takes as deep a breath as his lungs will allow, still reeling from the nightmare’s gravity. The shimmering crescent seems to waver in time with each inhale, hypnotic and nauseating. His skull feels too tight for his thoughts, his body pulled taut against the angles and the questions and the thrashing of his heart. Every breeze that shakes the shadowed bough of a tree in his periphery makes him jump nearly out of his skin. Jon closes his eyes and digs his fingers into the soil, begging the spinning to stop. He can feel his heartbeat in his eyelids, thrumming painfully at every pulse point, jolting along with the flashes of pain through his ribs and ricocheting down his spine, reliving the echo of being stretched and torn in all its agonizing detail.<br/>
<br/>
Rooted by pain below every star in the sky, the glittering eyes of a predatory dark poised to pounce, panicking at a dream that isn’t even his, coughing up the dark, wet remains of fear onto the cold dirt and he needs to <em>think</em>, god damn it, needs to <em>take a breath.</em>.<br/>
<br/>
He lies there for a long time before he can finally pick himself up, watching the moon move across the sky. By the time he feels right enough to start his trek to the castle it’s halfway across the lake- <em>A waste of your last night, </em>the voice says he steps into the castle, stones warping and glittering at the touch of his bare and bloodied soles. <em>You could have been reading, Jon. All you had to do was calm down, </em>as if it were just that simple<em>- </em>and he lingers in front of the fireplace, too cold to bother being afraid of the unseen flames.<br/>
<br/>
There’s a riot of wings and honking from outside announcing that he’ll find no peace from Quatre tonight, but it’s followed by another sound that makes him freeze in place, holding his breath in disbelief; a voice, and not one he expected ever to hear again.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Jesus</em>, what is <em>that!?” </em>Quatre’s obviously gone into a territorial rage, if the battery of screaming and hissing and crunching gravel is anything to go by. Jon’s heart leaps directly into his throat.<br/>
<br/>
<em>What do you know? </em>The voice laughs as he races back into the cold air, exhaustion forgotten. <em>He did make it back a second time.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yeah so this chapter got the fuck away from me, word count wise, and now we'll uh. probably have 7 rather than the 6 i originally said. but hey! hope you guys are still enjoying it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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